Back from Beijing: Reporter shares his Olympic memories

Monday

Aug 25, 2008 at 12:01 AMAug 25, 2008 at 6:25 PM

On opening day of the Beijing Olympics, Chairman Mao Zedong gazed sternly from a large portrait looming above Tiananmen Square onto a China he would not recognize today. From the balcony where "The Great Helmsman" proclaimed on Oct. 1, 1949, the founding of the Peoples' Republic of China, there was no sign of the revolutionary zealotry that once fueled the creation of the communist superpower. Returning to China for the first time in 21 years, I didn't recognize it either.

Chris Bergeron

On opening day of the Beijing Olympics, Chairman Mao Zedong gazed sternly from a large portrait looming above Tiananmen Square onto a China he would not recognize today.

From the balcony where "The Great Helmsman" proclaimed on Oct. 1, 1949, the founding of the Peoples' Republic of China, there was no sign of the revolutionary zealotry that once fueled the creation of the communist superpower.

Returning to China for the first time in 21 years, I didn't recognize it either.

Instead of androgynous masses in baggy green jackets, fashionably dressed couples held hands or pushed babies in strollers through the streets around the square.

Women in jeans and sundresses snapped digital photos of children playing in the Forbidden City. Casually dressed men chatted on cell phones or discussed China's basketball prospects against the U.S. Two spiky-haired students wearing T-shirts with pictures of Nicolas Cage and Eminem bought Cokes for stylish female friends in shorts.

Flying on July 31 to Beijing, Xiuping Liu, my Manchurian wife, warned me the struggling country I'd known, where Chinese envied Western prosperity, had been replaced by a confident nation reclaiming its traditional place as one of the world's great civilizations.

From 1980 to 1987, I'd taught English at three colleges to the first wave of Chinese students to be educated at that level after the disastrous Cultural Revolution. Raised amid Maoist orthodoxy and anti-American propaganda, they hungered for Western ideas about religion, psychology and the taboo subjects of love and sexuality.

After serving as a Peace Corps volunteer in Fiji and freelance teacher in Saudi Arabia, I'd accepted a one-year position at Shanxi Teachers College in rural Linfen, Shanxi Province. An adventurous but immature 30-year-old who loved literature, I improbably came to represent to my students their virgin encounter with the Western culture their leaders had taught them to fear.

This summer, waking from a 13-hour flight like Rip Van Winkle, I wondered if I'd find the China that once stirred my soul or a different country that had outgrown me.

Despite concerns about protests and terrorism, a festive and welcoming atmosphere prevailed in Beijing.

Streets, sidewalks and even parking garages were clean and litter free.

While foreign media reported thousands of homeless and mentally ill people had been forcibly relocated, the large crowds were friendly and receptive to conversations in my ungrammatical, pigeon Chinese.

I discovered people were no longer afraid to discuss politics or the Communist Party's efforts to shape opinion and stifle dissent.

Riding with a talkative taxi driver, I asked if he believed in Mao or Buddha, Taoism or even Christianity. "Nothing. None of it," he answered without hesitation. "I just believe in myself."

Capitalist lessons learned from the West had transformed the once ubiquitous Cult of Mao into an immediately recognizable brand name I thought of as the Kitsch of Mao.

I bought Mao postcards, Mao playing cards, a Mao stamp album, Mao and Madame Mao T-shirts, a Mao key ring and Mao buttons. On my final visit to Shanghai's "Old Town," spiky-haired twins tried to sell me a pair of roller blades. Instead, I paid $10 for a reproduction Mao-era shoulder bag decorated with his image and the widely-recognized slogan, "Serve the people, heart and soul."

While Chinese police and military geared up for domestic and international threats, I never felt threatened except by the oppressive heat, humidity and gray skies which gave us all sore throats and hacking coughs.

Vast Tiananmen Square, where Mao set loose a million Red Guards in 1966 to launch the Cultural Revolution, was sealed off by armed soldiers to prevent demonstrations by Tibetans, Muslim Uyghurs from the northwest or the Falun Gong cult.

For nearly three weeks, Xiuping and I pursued an ambitious agenda, mixing time with her elderly parents with visits to Xian in central China and Shanghai and Hangzhou on the east cost.

Organized by an energetic student named Wen Lianbin who'd prospered selling coal throughout Asia, students from Shanxi Teachers College in Linfen, Shanxi, where I'd taught from 1980-83, hosted banquets for me in Beijing, Taiyuan and Linfen that drew about 50 old friends.

I was moved close to tears by their warm memories and willingness to forgive my then-cultural blunders. Now in their 40s, most had moved from teaching into business, using their English to work for joint ventures or trade companies.

In a culture that avoids public displays of affection, male and female students embraced me and recalled old times with heartfelt warmth.

After climbing an obscure section of the Great Wall, Xiuping and I rode an overnight train south to Xian to see the fabulous Army of 6,000 Terracotta Warriors buried around 200 B.C. to accompany Emperor Qin Shi Huang "across the river" into the other world.

We visited scenic West Lake in Hangzhou and rode a sampan down through willow-lined canals of Zhouzhuang, the so-called "Venice of China," as our 61-year-old female oarsman sang folk songs.

I still yearned for a special moment beyond the big cities that would transport me, even for the briefest time, to the past magic of exploring China 25 years ago.

While Xiuping stayed with her parents in Beijing, Wes Beasley, an old Peace Corps buddy from South Carolina, and I took a train to Shandong province to climb Mount Tai Shan, the most revered of China's five sacred Taoist peaks.

Rather than climb 6,660 stone steps to the summit on middle-aged legs, we'd planned to ride a cable car to the top. But it wasn't working that day which left us stuck midway to the top.

With little choice, we set off for the summit at 6 p.m., burdened by my overloaded backpack and considerable doubt on my part whether I could make it. Along the way I plodded by ancient temples, rushing waterfalls and century-old pines jutting from craggy peaks.

Strangers offered to carry my bag or buy me soda or fruit. Others, amused by the sight of a pear-shaped sweating foreigner, took photos with me.

A white haired woman who said she was celebrating her 70th birthday passed me by, urging me to "jia yo," or "add oil."

After 10 p.m., Wes and I reached the mist-shrouded summit but began to panic when we couldn't find the guest house where we'd reserved rooms.

Drawn to the light of a small hut, we heard peasants drinking and singing and explained we were lost.

Two young men and a 17-year-old country girl agreed to show us the way. When I stumbled, the slim girl took my arm and calling me "grandfather" carefully led me through the dark to our guesthouse.

Exhausted and grateful, I did something I shouldn't have: I pressed a 100 yuan note, about U.S. $15, into the older man's hand asking him to treat them to a good meal or buy themselves something special.

All three refused. But the young girl saw an album I'd put brought of family photos and asked for a picture of myself in a tuxedo walking my wife's daughter Lulu down the aisle in her wedding dress.

Waking at 5 the next morning, I climbed about 15 minutes to Tai Shan's rocky summit to watch the sun rise.

Moments after the roseate sun burst through a sea of clouds, I saw the young girl sitting 50 yards away with two older people who might have been her parents.

When she waved to me and smiled, I knew I'd found everything I'd come back to China for.

The MetroWest Daily News

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